The Burning Season

This is the burning season - to search your soul for a harvest and reap all but none and burn the chaff where there is gnashing of teeth. Oh how then will the old widow weep? Does her dead child come back to life? The lifeless corpse [remains] will remain clutched in her frail arms. She tries to consol it by whispering softly into a charred cracked ear. Alas - no hearing drum will hear this droll of nonsense from her unquenched lips.

This, however, is all a dream - for from the moment we wake, we can see wings forming and the clouds begin to roll in; bringing soft falling dew to everything the eye can see. Where are you in this? Don't protect yourself with illusions or ghosts of the past. Come out from your hiding place, put your hands on your handsome face - feel the burn. Cleansed in the tears of another, only then will we see face to face who has stood by us, and who ran hiding at the moment of fear. Once more you can hear the widow’s whimper as grey the skies re-align and detain us again.

Cover me in crimson - bathe me in blood till I am white as snow.